Page 38 of Valor (Long Hot Summer: Christian Romantic Suspense #2)
LANI
“‘Who will protect me from the wicked?’” I whisper, reciting Psalm 94. “‘Who will stand up for me against evildoers?’” My words are labored, my breathing ragged. The darkness closes in around me, and my heart pounds in my chest. It’s hammering against my ribs so hard, I’m honestly worried it’ll pop right out of my body. Of course, I know that’s physically impossible, but the feeling remains.
The heaviness.
The tightness in my chest.
“‘Unless the Lord had helped me, I would soon have settled in the silence of the grave.’”
My stomach churns, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the panic setting in. It’s so dark. So small. Even though I can’t see anything, I know it’s small. I saw it the last time my abductor came in and drugged me.
And more than seeing, it’s a feeling. I know it’s small.
Claustrophobia has been attacking me for I don’t even know how long—since I came out of the last haze. Sweat slicks my skin, saturating the sheet I’m lying on. “Help!” I scream. My voice is hoarse, my throat raw. But I won’t quit. Not until I’m free and whoever did this is behind bars.
“‘I cried out, “I am slipping!” but your unfailing love, O Lord, supported me.’” I whimper as tears stream down my cheeks.
It’s so hot.
Why is it so hot?
“Help!” I call out again. It’s hoarse, barely audible. But I have to believe someone will hear me. Someone has to come. My brothers are out of the country, but Gibson will be looking for me. I know he will. And my parents. Will someone have called Bradyn’s satellite phone? Would he have answered?
God, please let someone come. Please let them come for me.
“‘When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer.’” I choke on a sob. How long will I suffer here? How long will I be trapped?
“‘Can unjust leaders claim that God is on their side—leaders whose decrees permit injustice?’” I sniffle and tug at the restraints again. “‘They gang up against the righteous and condemn the innocent to death.’” Will I die here? Is this my fate?
Tears continue to slide down my cheeks. I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. I know that I’m hungry and my lips are chapped. I haven’t been given any water, but there’s a saline drip in my arm. Has it been a day? More? I know it can’t have been much past that, since I haven’t used the bathroom.
Or it has, and it’s not just sweat I’m lying on. The thought makes my stomach churn.
“‘But the Lord is my fortress; my God is the mighty rock where I hide.’” I throw force behind the words, hitting the most powerful lines of the Psalm. “‘God will turn the sins of evil people back on them. He will destroy them for their sins. The Lord our God will destroy them.’” I yank at the unyielding restraints again, then throw my head back and scream as loud as I can when they remain strong.
A door slams in the distance.
I go silent and try to keep my breathing steady. Maybe they didn’t hear me. And if I can trick them into thinking the drugs are still working, then I might stand a chance at them not injecting me again. If I can come fully out of the effects, then I can get enough strength to find a way to get free.
The knob turns, so I close my eyes.
Light bathes my face, and footsteps carry the stranger toward me. It’s all I can do to remain calm when just the sound of my pulse is deafening.
“Eat.” The voice is distorted. “Eat,” they say again, this time shaking me with their free hand.
Knowing they realize I’m awake, I open my eyes. Once again, they’re wearing a ski mask and sunglasses, and in their hands is a sandwich. My vision is so blurry from the darkness, that I can’t make out anything behind them.
“Can you remove a restraint so I can?”
“Eat.” They shove it against my lips.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“Eat.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say again.
The person stares at me—or at least I think they are—and then turns to leave the room. Since the door is open, I try to memorize where I am. It’s a small room, barely large enough for the bed I’m strapped in.
Just outside, there’s not much to see. A tattered old couch and boarded-up windows.
The stranger returns, blocking my view, a syringe in their hand.
“What is that?” I demand. “You can’t keep injecting me with stuff. Look, you want me to be alive, right? Otherwise, you would have killed me already. Just tell me what it is. I can give you the correct dosage.”
They completely ignore me as they clean the line, then insert the needle. Medication floods my system, dulling my senses within seconds.
“Please. Tell. Me. Why,” I say, every word labored. “Why—” Heaviness overtakes me again, and I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.
My last thought—as it’s been every time—is of Gibson and just how close I was to getting everything I wanted.